


Bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints

by ashryvergrace



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Torchwood
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Panic Attacks, Past Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes, Past Ryan Ross/Brendon Urie, Survivor Guilt, Torchwood Three
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:06:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24242533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashryvergrace/pseuds/ashryvergrace
Summary: It started with a one night stand. Is immortal, ancient Captain Jack Harkness what Brendon needs? Or is nearly-32-year-old Brendon Urie exactly what the Doctor ordered for Jack?Truthfully, I amSO donewith my brain right now. No one needs this pairing, there is no demand for this, so why am I writing it? To please the writing gremlin living in my head of course. *sigh*
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Brendon Urie
Kudos: 12





	1. Bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be a one night stand. Now neither of them know what to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, disclaimer time: I have no fucking clue what I'm doing with this or why I wrote it. Like, there are zero fics for this pairing and I do not know if anyone will want to read it, but I felt like it needed to be written so here it is. There may or may not be more chapters added later. I currently don't plan to but who knows.
> 
> Also I hate writing 3rd person (Don't mind reading it, just hate writing it). It feels clunky, unattached and impersonal (again, only when I write it) so here’s 1st person Brendon.

**_25th March 2019_**  
Consciousness is slow, fading in and out like an after-image. Kisses down my spine making me shiver. I roll over to meet blue-grey eyes. “Hello.” It was supposed to be a one-night-stand. “How are you feeling?” I swallowed.

“Sore.” A lazy smile spread across his face.

“Told you.” I smiled in return.

“I know.” He leaned forwards and our lips touched, sparks whirling like the first time. Every muscle in my body aches. I pulled away, gazing into those eyes and tucking a stray hair behind his ear. “Letting go was easier than I thought it would be. I trust you.” He propped himself up on his pillow. “Why do I trust you? I only just met you.” My heart raced. The last time was… with Dallon. And before that, Ryan.

“I don’t know. Instinct?” He rose, climbing so that he knelt above me, my hands pinned on the pillows either side of my head. “Maybe it’s because you feel safe?” His kisses brushed my collarbone.

“Maybe,” I agreed, relaxing, melting into his touch.

“Have you ever felt safe before?” No. Never. Not with Ryan. Not with our long nights in hotel rooms trying to be quiet. Not with our quick screws in toilet stalls and broom closets where Ryan was on his knees, so inexperienced. Not with Dallon. Never with Dallon. He was flighty, prone to running. He had a wife after all, who could blame him. This? This was different. Gentle, slow, caring, safe. The way I wanted to be but never could. I weighed the answer.

“No.” He paused and glanced over my face. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Heat rose in my cheeks. “Stunning.” He smirked in the way which would have every girl and most guys in a twenty foot radius swooning. “Even if you do have eyeliner smudged on your cheeks.”

“Fuck. I meant to wash it off after the show.”

“Why do you keep wearing it?”

“It’s comforting I guess. A link to my roots, to my beginning.” To Ryan. “And it brings out my eyes.” I smiled, fluttering my eyelashes at him.

“Your eyes are beautiful anyway.” I pushed the covers back. Bruises all over. My stomach, my arms, my neck, my thighs. He seemed to admire it. Fuck. The show.

“I have a show tonight.” I mused. He raised an eyebrow.

“You do.” Not an answer. Just an affirmation of a statement of fact. “Perhaps you should wear these,” he offered as I searched for my boxers. I turned, catching a glimpse of deep red satin.

“Oh hell no.” I paused. “Wait… are you offering, asking or telling?” His smirk returned. Fuck it was hot. Him lying there, the strong panes of that immortal chest.

“What do you think?” Telling. 

“And if I refuse?”

“There are other things I might ask you to do.” I glimpsed an object sitting on the top of the chest of drawers behind him. Big. Bigger than I’d ever used on Ryan. And certainly bigger than any Dallon or I had used.

“Absolutely not.” I held out a hand and he shook his head, standing up lazily and moving round behind me, sliding them up over my knees, my thighs, allowing me to secretly, silently savour the sensation of the fabric slithering over my skin and into place. I closed my eyes and prayed that I could ignore the blood rushing downwards. Apparently not. I pulled the panties off. “I need to shower. Care to join?” He smiled and prowled towards the door after me, feline graceful. The feline grace of an immortal who was thousands of years old, skilled and patient. The shower took three times as long as it should have. Still, I re-entered the room and the panties were lying exactly where I left them. “You weren’t kidding.” The infuriating arousal of that smirk. Fucking hell. I pulled them back on and very quickly pulled a pair of black jeans over the top before throwing on a black t-shirt and hoodie. I paused, staring blankly at my phone. _No new messages_ , it mocked.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” I replied half-heartedly. His fingers gentle under my chin despite the callouses. He had dressed already somehow. Suit pants, shirt with the sleeves rolled up, suspenders, belt. Very V&V me. The leather strap around his wrist had never come off. Not even last night. He hadn’t told me what it was.

“You sure?”

“You’re different,” I replied after a long pause, heavy with contemplation.

“Immortal, remember?”

“Not that. Well maybe that. I don’t know.” Silence, like thoughts being processed.

“You’re different too.” I glanced at his face, his eyes, searching for betrayal or lies. Nothing. “I was never going to tell you anything. But you’re like truth serum. Then I was going to give you retcon and leave in the middle of the night. Then I woke up here this morning and you were still there, still next to me. That’s not supposed to happen.”

“I don't even know your name.”

“Captain Jack Harkness.” Christ. It was like a pick-up line.

“Your friends last night? That guy. Who was he?”

“Just a guy I used to know, back when he had a different face. This is the third in the time I’ve known him.” He shook his head.

“Why, might I ask, did I find Mr Captain Jack Harkness in the middle of Cardiff?” The accent was American. The coat was WW2.

“I work here.”

“And where is here, exactly?” He smirked again and the lights sprung to life, revealing a huge bunker, one which I hadn’t seen most of last night.

“Torchwood Three. It was blown up in 2009, ten years ago now, but we rebuilt. I rebuilt. The others are all long gone by now and I never hired anyone else.” I arched an eyebrow.

“Torchwood?”

“Set up by Queen Victoria to fight extraterrestrial threats in the United Kingdom. Been working here for more than three times the length of your life. Most people don’t leave here without retcon.” He placed a pill on the chest of drawers. “You take that and you’ll forget all about me. About this. About everything in the last 24 hours. Or you can leave it, and leave with your memories intact. But if you tell anyone… well, you’re not immortal, are you?” Holy fucking hell.

“You’re serious.” His gaze hardened in a way which terrified me.

“Deadly.” I swallowed and glanced at the pill.

“No thanks.” He nodded once.

“So I’ll see you in London? After the shows. 28th and 29th?” I nodded vaguely, distracted.

“Sure.” His hand wrapped around my arm.

“Brendon… focus.” I glanced at his face, heart pounding. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. I have to go. The others will be worried.”

“No they won’t.”

“No, they won’t.” This was beginning to become a habit. After Ryan left and Sarah died and Dallon left, there didn’t seem to be any point in getting into a serious relationship, not when everyone around me got hurt. So one-night stands were becoming ‘a thing’. Getting hammer drunk then going back to some random stranger’s house. Usually, I’d be gone the next morning. The girls and the guys would wake up to an empty bed and no traces that I’d ever been there. It was better that way. The public, my parents, well, they weren’t huge fans of it, but hey, it wasn’t like it was their life. I was beginning to get a playboy reputation and truthfully, I wasn’t sure I cared. The others certainly didn’t. They’d dealt with enough shit that they’d lost the will to care. But for some reason, Jack was different. I’d stayed. “London?” Jack smirked and arched an eyebrow. "Wherever you are, I'll be there."

“I know.”


	2. Feeling things fucking hurts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was supposed to be a one night stand. Now it's their second night together and Brendon is losing control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, disclaimer time: I wrote the first chapter with no plans to write another, but here we are. Like I said last time, there may or may not be more to come. I have no plans to, but you can read for yourself where that ended up.
> 
> Also I hate writing 3rd person (Don't mind reading it, just hate writing it). It feels clunky, unattached and impersonal (again, only when I write it) so here’s 1st person Brendon. (Again.)

**_28th March 2019_**  
Fingers soft in my hair, gentle. Hands which I imagined had killed, hands which shook in the night when nightmares woke him up, hands which never really stilled. His hand wandered downwards, cupping my cheek and pulling my face towards his.

Lips soft on my lips, gentle. At least until I turn fully, pushing him down onto the bed and deepening the kiss.

Sheets tangled over sweaty, aching limbs. I sat up slowly, feeling the aching of my abs more acutely now they were engaged. "Fuck," I uttered softly. Jack raised an eyebrow.

"Brendon?"

"Sorry." _Slow down, slow down, slow down._ Thoughts raced around my head, haphazardly growing more and more out of control as my emotions poured in. _Breathe dammit. Just fucking breathe._ "Where's the bathroom?"

"Two doors down the hall on the right," he replied. I darted out the door and into the bathroom, retching into the toilet. Dinner - plain pasta - and all of the alcohol I'd drunk since came rushing up. I slumped to the floor, leaning my head against the cool tiles. Too fucking loud. Everything in my head was so loud. I felt the tears coming, the pain in my chest and the cavernous hole there which nothing filled. Everything just felt so out of control recently. I was alone, my band was gone, all of the people I loved had been taken from me. I wasn't tied down. My 16-year-old self would have wondered what the hell was wrong, but there was something about not belonging anywhere which _hurt_. Between the pounding in my head and the sound of my own too-fast breathing and the sound of myself trying to hold in the screams I so desperately wanted to let free, I barely heard the quiet, gentle knocking on the door.

"Brendon, can I come in?" Words were like a distant memory. I clawed at the screams stuck in my throat, choking me. The handle turned and Jack stood silhouetted by the hall lights. I tried, so desperately tried, to pull myself together, but he moved towards me gently, calmly, his arms slipping under my arms and legs, lifting almost effortlessly. Too-bright lights and then the darkness of his bedroom. The bed soft under my body, that hole still aching in my chest, screams still clogging my throat. "Let it out Brendon, I'm here." So I did. Endlessly. For what felt like hours, letting out the screams I'd kept trapped for nearly a decade. The screams I'd wanted to throw at Ryan when he abandoned me. The screams I'd wanted to let free when Sarah had died. The screams I'd wanted to throw at Dallon when he left to start his own band _with someone named Ryan_. At some point I registered Jack's tears too, for what he'd lost, his team, his family. I could never begin to imagine the number of people he'd outlived. The nightmares told me that it was enough.

Screaming, crying in a near-stranger's bed in a city which wasn't mine, thousands of miles from home. Where even was home? Not Vegas, not for years. Not LA either, that was where Sarah and I had planned to live, there were too many painful memories there. But I'd never lived anywhere else. Struggling, fighting to contain every emotion pouring out of me knowing that when it was over, I'd go back to apathy, because it was safe. Because it was comfortable. Because my apathy - my not caring - might hurt others, but it is my cocoon, my safety net. Feeling things fucking hurts.

It feels like years until the screams and the aching pain in my chest subside. We don't talk, just lay in silent contemplation. "Brendon?"

"Yeah?" My voice is hoarse, it cracks even over that single word.

"Promise me you'll stay alive?" I turned my head to meet those piercing blue-grey eyes.

"Why?" His hand cupped my cheek, his thumb wiping a tear away.

"Because there are people who need you. I know that you're hurting, and I know that nothing I say will miraculously make anything better, but I also know there are teenagers and young adults out there - alive - right now because of you. And that means something. To me at least." I traced the line of his jaw with a finger.

"But you've saved the whole fucking _world_. I'm not important." He huffed a laugh.

"Do you remember the friend I was with the night of the show in Cardiff?" I nodded. "He told me a story recently. About a girl and a man he met. The man claimed the girl was no-one important. Do you know what my friend told him?" I shook my head, a lump bobbing in my throat. "In 900 years of time and space, he has never met anyone who wasn't important." This time I felt the warmth of the tears tracking their way down my face. "He also said this," Jack turned to face me properly. "Every life is a pile of good things and bad things. The good things don't always soften the bad, but vice versa, the bad things don't necessarily spoil the good things and make them unimportant."

"He sounds wise."

"He is. For a guy who wears fezzes and bow ties."

"What's wrong with bow ties?!" I protested. Jack smiled.

"Nothing." The pause was tangible, the air charged.

"I just... I've changed. I'm not the same person I was when I started this. I'm just... tired." Jack's smile was sad, the kind of smile people give you when you tell them you have cancer.

"We all change, when you think about it, we're all different people, all through our lives, and that's okay, that's good, you've gotta keep moving, so long as you remember all the people that you used to be. We're all stories in the end."

"Is that one of his too?"

"Uh huh. But it holds value, Brendon. The Doctor is an optimist. A hoper of far-flung hopes and a dreamer of improbable dreams. And he's wrong, a lot, but he's seen more things than you could ever imagine. He would most certainly not approve of me swearing, but he knows his shit." Jack lay back on his pillow, fingers interlaced behind his head. This pause was longer than the last, the silence lingering on. My thoughts had slowed, the emotions which had raged free before now dispersed. I felt the empty exhaustion which came after that kind of panic attack, yes, but it came with the comfort of Jack's body warm next to mine, his friend's words ringing in my ears.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Marry me?" I swallowed, cursed my impulsivity and waited for his reply.

"Why?" Either he was curious or it was a test.

"Because someone decided to shoot my fiancée and parents and a whole bunch of other people in the place I wanted to make my home. Because I don't belong anywhere else. Because here, with you, I know I'm right where I need to be." Jack smiled, the look tinged with confusion.

"I'm immortal. I don't age. I'll outlive you by thousands of years. Tens, hundreds of thousands of years. You're one star in an ocean of millions."

"Then let me be _your_ one star for as long as I can."

"Not yet." Not no, then. Just... wait. "Finish tour. When you're done, if you come back, I'll be in Cardiff. You'll know where to find me," he smiled, genuinely. I returned the look and moved in closer to him.

"What about tomorrow?"

"I'll be here after the show. I can be anyone you want and anything you need." I nodded.

"I know." I paused, contemplating my words. "If you see that friend of yours again, tell him..." I trailed off.

"Tell him what?"

"Tell him that he might have saved my life." Jack's look of understanding was worth more than any words he had to offer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was personal and in all honesty, probably me just projecting feelings, but hey. If you liked it and you have two seconds, leave a kudos or a comment? That lets me know I'm not an utterly worthless writer. Unless you think I am an utterly useless writer, in which case, still leave a comment. I'd like to know how people feel about this.
> 
> On a different note, if there are any more chapters, I'm no longer going to put the opening notes in like this, rather just PoV and any other little bits of information which might differ from previous chapters.


	3. Ex-friends 'til the end

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Survivor's guilt and Pete Wentz. Like everyone else, Brendon is pushing Jack away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1st person Brendon again (I know, I'm sorry)
> 
> In terms of tense, I use past tense for chapters and scenes where the PoV character is looking back on something, while using present tense for chapters and scenes where the PoV character is entirely in the moment as I feel it gives more opportunity for their first instinct gut reactions. Generally, there will not be _whole_ chapters written in this tense, not that there are plans for more chapters.
> 
> If this is something you've tried but don't like, that's fine. If it's something you've never tried and are not willing to try, then I don't really have anything to say to you.

The phone's quiet ringing wakes me in the early hours of the morning. I am in no mood to deal with Pete fucking Wentz. I sigh and answer it anyway. "Wentz?" My voice is tired, slurred from sleep and strained from the show.

"Brendon. Where are you?" Concern and an edge of harshness in his voice.

"What's it to you?" It comes out more bitter than I mean it to. Or maybe it doesn't. I'm too exhausted - both from performing and from Jack - to decide which one it is.

"You can't keep pushing everyone away, Brendon." _I can._

"If you're calling for something important, out with it. Otherwise, quit wasting my time." I'm exhausted, it's half two in the morning and I'm lying next to an immortal who had managed to pull me into his bed three nights in the last week. The concept of me being in some near-stranger's bed three nights out of a week is not necessarily weird, but the concept of it being him and not me who pulled me in was slightly peculiar. 

"You fucked up, Brendon, and I am done dealing with your shit. I signed you and the others because I saw a spark. The last time I saw you, it was gone." Pissed now. Fine.

"Get to the point Wentz," I snap, done with whatever game he's playing.

"The label is talking about dropping you. And truthfully, I don't think I can keep blocking it." There are no hints of remorse in his voice.

"Then don't, Pete. I am done making crappy music for the same people who thought it was fucking okay to break into my home and kill my family. Josh. Sarah." Pause, silence.

"Brendon, it wasn't your fault, you have to know that." Pete's voice softens, tinged blue-grey with pity.

"Yeah it was, Pete. I'm the one who fucked Tyler up. I'm the one who let a seventeen-year-old girl kill his best friend." _I don't care, I don't care, I don't care,_ I try to persuade myself. I don't care that Josh died. I don't care that Tyler hasn't been the same since. I don't care that Tyler is in some state institution so that he doesn't kill himself. I don't care that a seventeen year old kid shot Patrick and nearly killed him. I. Don't. Care.

"Look, I know you've been through hell, but you're crashing. You're taking your anger and hurt out on everyone else. And when you're not taking it out on them, you're taking it out on yourself. I've seen the scars, Brendon, I know what you're doing to yourself. It's the same thing Tyler, Patrick and I have done in the past. You can't keep going on like this." _It's not my fault, it's not my fault, it's not my fault,_ I try to persuade myself. It's not my fault that my fiancée died in my arms. It's not my fault that my parents tried to talk the kid down and she shot them. It's not my fault that my siblings did the same thing, knowing they would die. It's not my fault that Pete nearly lost one of the only people who could save him.

"Can't I? Pete, I know you're only trying to help, but I am so fucking _done_ with everyone telling me what I can and can't do. If your stupid, petty little record label drops me, that's fine. I don't care anymore. Don't call me. I'm _done_." I end the call and snarl softly at the phone. Pete Wentz can go to hell. Arms wrap around my waist from behind, Jack's chin leaning on my shoulder.

"Are you okay?" I scratch at the scars on my right arm, snarling at the feeling of flames flickering over my skin. Despite my former tiredness, my entire body is jumpy and on-edge, tense.

"I'm pissed. I'm fucking furious."

"With who?" Jack's voice is gentle.

"Myself? My friends." I snort and correct myself. "Ex-friends."

"What did they do?" I turn, narrowing my eyes at him. He doesn't look hurt. He's impossibly calm, 

"What does it matter? They fucking hurt me."

"By the sound of it, you're hurting them too, Brendon," he says. 

"What?" How can he do this? How can he take the side of someone he doesn't even know? It's just one more betrayal. Who fucking cares anymore?

"I don't know what you've been through, but you _are_ pushing people away."

"No. No, they abandoned me. When I needed them most, they weren't there." They _were_ though. Even despite their grief and shock and fear and pain, they were there for me to talk to if I needed it. And I did need it. It was only my own guilt and fear and self-loathing that kept me divided from them. But it was easier to think that they didn't care than to know that they did care and I just pushed them away.

"Brendon?"

"I have to go." Deflecting. Of course. When things hurt too much or get too hard, I give up because it's easier than trying to fix whatever is wrong. I never used to. For _'Fever'_ I was the one in the studio as late as possible fixing whatever wouldn't work. I was the one who pushed everyone else to keep going. Now, I'm tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of fans who demand more than I have to give. 

"It's three in the morning," Jack tried to reason. I swung my legs out of bed and stood up swiftly, ignoring the dizziness which nipped at my heels.

"Which is exactly why I have to go. I don't even know why I'm here. Look, this has been... well I don't know what it's been, but it has to end. People around me get hurt, Jack. It's better if I stay away."

"Why, Brendon? You think I can't take it? Do you know how many people I've let down and gotten hurt?" I stare at him out of the corner of my eye. "What happened, why are you hurting?"

"It doesn't matter." I shake my head and swallow the growing lump in my throat, throwing clothes I used to fold into my suitcase, fighting tears, choking back sobs. When I am done, I pull on my black leather pants and black t-shirt from the floor - discarded earlier in the night in the hurry for his skin on mine. I pause, remembering the taste of his mouth on mine, the warmth of his body, the connection, the electricity, the life and joy. The room is cold, we feel miles apart.

"I have to go," I say aloud to no one in particular. Jack doesn't argue. I wonder whether I wish he would.


End file.
